Black Dragon
by Gonethoughts
Summary: After doing the Bad Thing, Maurice is sent to a mental institution. The only person there he can seek solace in is a lonely, introverted sadist named Roger. Roger/Maurice
1. Chapter 1

The building itself was archaic. If a simple bystander had wandered _accidentally_ upon the grounds they could have easily assumed it was a forgotten set from the glory days of Universal horror films. The building rose high from its bed of dead grass and shrubs like a stone mountain, tall and monstrous against the lifeless, Arctic Ocean of an October sky. Vines seemed to choke the little essence the place had out of itself. Many warped windows decorated the front, black bars, thick and strong, covering them. A decrepit fountain proclaimed the center of the driveway as its permanent home. Maurice chuckled to himself as he pictured Dracula standing on the rocky steps.

The car stopped and the dying squeaks of the breaks peppered the air with their high-pitched song. Maurice looked over at the seats beside him on habit, realizing with sick confirmation that his parents and sister did not in fact come and were either dining out or at some movie: activities they constantly claimed could not be the same without him, though he detected a sense of relief in that statement. His sense of let down soon became that of anger. _Lousy stupid pieces of-No! They're not bad. They're good. They love you. They take care of you. It's you. You're the problem, you filthy pig. You're the problem. Trash. That's all you are. Filthy, rotten, dirty trash. Why do you still live? Why don't you just...do_ _The Bad Thing. Just do it. Just-_

_ "_Why hello_, _dear_!__**" **_A voice like every grandmother in the world wrapped into one stopped Maurice's thoughts.

"Hi," he said meekly, a tone he always used whether he liked it or not.

"You must be Maurice!"

"It's a pleasure to meet you." These things were standard to him.

"Aww. Such fine manners for such an adorable boy!"

"Gee..thanks." He knew how it really was. He knew he was ugly. Plain and simple.

_Such_ _a_ _disgusting_, _rotten_ _piece_ _of_ _trash. _

_"_My name is Muriel. I am one of the headnurses_."_

They shook hands_. _It was warm and felt like lotion_-_coveredpig flesh._  
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"Here, follow me to your room. I think you'll find the place peaceful and quiet."

_Yeah_ _fucking_ _right_.

He followed behind her slowly, almost dazedly as he clutched his bag of clothes. His heart began to pound as they climbed the stone steps. A great archway started the porch and it plunged Maurice and the attnendent into a menacing darkness, cold and damp. Right next to the larg oak door was a bronze plaque, shining with a gossamer luster right out of hell. The words read neatly: _St_. _Annabelle's_ _Sanatarium_, but all Maurice saw was _Looney_ _Bin_.

Heart close to erupting in his chest, Maurice followed the attendend into a sea of darkness.

**A**/**N**: **I** **hope** **this** **didn't** **suck** **_too_** **bad**. **I** **tried** **to** **keep** **it** **short. Does it stink or not?**


	2. Chapter 2

A whiff of cleaning fluid. A stench of pain and hopelessness. They greeted Maurice's nose and filled his head. This _was_ a hospital_. _Uneasinessfilled his belly, coated his insides. For a second he thought this was a dream, a horrible, sick dream. He wasn't crazy. He was a good Christian boy who did what he was told and let people walk over him like the garbage he knew he was and never did the Bad Thing never ever no not at all even if he deserved it like the worthless worthless creature he was awful awful horrible worthless disgusting-

"Honey?" The woman's voice snapped him out of his minds chains. "Are you okay? You seemed...a little..."

_Worthless? Helpless? _

_ "..._dazed."

"Oh...sorry. I was just...I was...sorry."

_Weirdo_. _Creep_. _Faggot_.

She smiled gently and said something about it being alright and that we all had our moments. Maurice only nodded distantly as he took in the surrounding area. White walls, paintings of cheery scenes that would never happens in a million years, chairs that looked extremely awkward to sit on, standing proudly behind tacky coffee tables with those magazines that the hospital staff would take the cross word puzzles out of: standard waiting room fodder. A far desk in the corner with the top encased in frosted glass.

Past the awkward displays of comfort and into the elevator they went. The doors opened moments later and an almost divine whiteness fell upon him. The smell of anguish and medicine choked Maurice's soul. Bit the woman never showed signs of of being disturbed. She was used to it, after all. Down the hall they went, shoes clacking vocally upon the polished linoleum, though the silence in between each step was truly the loudest.

Muriel walked with a bounce in her step. Maurice walked like a man being led to the electric chair. The hallways were long and have one sense of extreme vertigo. Maurice's belly churned, his head spun like a top.

And then they arrived there.

She left him alone almost as quickly as he entered. She told him in a rushed sense of ergencry that the bathroom and shower was in the corner, and small clothes drawer was under his bed, and that she had to go see if some guy ended up with some girl on some idiotic soap opera. Though, obviously, she didn't use that last adjective.

Silence filled the air in the room so bland. Any Scrooge would cringe at the mere thought of how much money that place spent on white paint and rabbit portraits.

Maurice trailed across to the barred window. Behind the asylum's bars was a sea vast and majestic, calm and superior. Maurice wondered, just briefly, what it would be like to lose one's self in the waters. To become whole with the ocean floor. _Bad_ _Maurice_. _Bad_.

Parting, he decided to rest on the bed. He stared at the cream colored ceiling. The patterns consisted of those odd third dimensional merengue-esque curls one often sees painted on the ceilings of odd and old structures. It was at moments like this, and such in that present case, that he missed his friends. His wrists tingled as he recalled their beauty. Red like fresh barn paint. Smooth and rich like butter milk. A scent of great pennies. O how he missed them! But this sweet reminisce became a crave. This crave became a need.

_Need it so fucking badly oh god yes hate was a narcotic pain was a sedation such great beautiful wonderful feelings it gave hurt was bliss sweet sweet bliss need need it but where how gotta find somethimg razor pin something oh fuck nothing well duh dumbass nothing sharp dont want their precious patient to get hurt as if they fucking care dont do bad thing no good thing great thing need it now where where sharp please something where where!_

"Maurice, dear? It's time for supper!" A voice from the hall. Muriel's.

Maurice suddenly realized that, in his frenzy to find instruments to do the Bad Thing, he had ripped open the drawer beneath the bed. About to close it, he saw six words scratched into the bottom of the wood: LIFE IS TORTUE-DEATH IS RELIEF!

Maurice chuckled sardonically. _Ain't that the truth!_


	3. Chapter 3

It was a pleasure to kill.

Roger was always the odd boy. Never talking, never playing. Just sit at his desk and stare. His hair so black no light seemed to penetrate it. Skin so white one would think he was a paper doll. Such a thin, frail boy. Such a dark terrible mind. Whenever his gaze came upon someone, a look of malice so strong and unatural oozed upon his face. Anger and loathing. He looked at the human race as one would look at slug as it gushed itself across the sidewalk. Head filled with knives that slashed, skin that ripped, people that screamed. Oh how soothing it was. A mind filled with such dark fantasies could never be sated with imagination, no. He needed to aleive the hunger that grew, the hunger that called. But how?

The island. Such a godsend it was. No rules. No parents. No taming the fire that grew within. They were the pigs. He was the wolf.

His first kill he remembers well. That black hog. The flesh ripped so beautifully and tenderly. Its squeals were like music so lovely and sweet. No angel could recreate it. The blood. Oh the quantity this much seemed only possible in dreams. A fountain of rubies, it was. The way it shined. The way it smelt. The way it felt. He indulged himself as he made sure it gushed upon him like a crimson bath. Its velvety smooth texture made his flesh crawl. His toes curl. He went and sighed in total bliss.

Piggy next. Fat, stupid Piggy. Fun it was. Brains splattered like custard in the air. A boy cringed. A boy vomited. He laughed.

It was a pleasure to kill.

A/N: I'm sorry for not writing sooner but I was busy and my creative brain was empty. For the few who enjoy this I thank you deeply. This was the best I could do at the moment and I apologize if it sucks. A new chapter will be probably posted late Friday or early Saturday. I've decided to reformat the story. Instead of being one total story, it will be a collection. Basically one chapter might focus on Roger, such as this one, one might be about Maurice, one might be about other characters mentioned. Like wise, some may take place after Maurice is sent to the ward or before. I hope that made sense! Thanks again!u


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